


Living Rooms and Batman Shirts

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/421758">Fashion Show.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Rooms and Batman Shirts

Title: Living Rooms and Batman Shirts  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None in particular.  
Summary: Sequel to [Fashion Show.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/421758)

  
She’s amazed they even make it out of the store—Brittany’s new skirt bundled in a plastic bag along with a couple of bracelets and a hat, Santana wearing her Brittany-bought new outfit out the door—before Round 2 kicks into high gear. The wickedly high-cut shorts bind tight around the tops of her thighs, the ridiculous Batman shirt clinging, black and snug, to her curves, and even the soccer moms at the checkout line can’t help but gape. Brittany is ten times worse, rolling her hips uncomfortably against the counter as she pays and ignoring the wide-eyed glare from their Elton John of a cashier.

“She’s _hot_ ,” she informs him briskly when he opens his mouth to comment, and Santana flips him a wink that—if she does say so herself—could turn anybody’s sexuality on its head. Nudging a hand through the crook of her elbow, Brittany wastes no time in hauling her from the store, out of the mall, into the warm summer air.

They land in a tangle against the backseat of the mini-van, Santana’s knees bumping awkwardly against the window as she goes. Brittany jerks the sliding door shut behind her in one fluid motion, slipping between Santana’s bent legs in the next and driving her tongue past parted lips.

“Strap-on’s at my house,” Santana mumbles into her, whimpering when Brittany thrusts a hand between her legs and mercilessly works at her over the shorts. “ _Fuck_ , you know your windows aren’t _that_ tinted, right?”

Brittany’s teeth clamp down on her lip, tugging until Santana’s eyes roll back and her breath hitches. Her thumb swipes across the seam of denim, tracing the outline of wet heat, and Santana rocks up to meet her. Her nerves are still sensitive, still standing sharply at attention from the miracles Brittany’s tongue worked not a half hour before, and it takes little more than the heel of Brittany’s palm grinding against her for a whimper to cut loose from her lips.

The hot arc of Brittany’s fingertips curve, cradling her and rubbing in slow strokes, and Santana feels her back push up from the seat. Her arms catch around Brittany’s shoulders, hands sweeping between her twisting shoulder blades, and Brittany hisses in time with the scrape of nails through thin cotton. “Home,” she growls, though she doesn’t seem able to stop palming Santana through the shorts. “Need to teleport.”

“Haven’t worked that one out yet,” Santana groans, fisting a hand in Brittany’s hair and yanking until her head jerks obediently back. “Might have to do it the hard way.”

Brittany stares at her, eyes wild. “We could just do it here?” she suggests hopefully, fingertips skidding around the outline of Santana through the shorts. Her eyelids flicker, her tongue wetting her bottom lip.

“Or you could fuck me in like eight different rooms until dinner.”

“Both?” Brittany asks, tilting her head and grinning. Santana playfully ruts against the teasing hand between her legs and shakes her head.

“I won, remember? My call. You can have me here, or you can have me there. I’ll let you choose, because I’m such a sweet—“

Brittany’s mouth lands heavy against hers, her frustrated groan pouring into Santana’s mouth and vibrating against the back of her tongue. She returns with a muffled laugh, wrapping her legs tightly around Brittany’s hips and digging her heels into a firm ass.

“ _Fine_ ,” Brittany huffs, releasing her lips at last and sliding her hand back up to rest against Santana’s belly. “But you have to wear the shirt.”

“The whole time?” Santana teases, even as Brittany untangles herself and moves toward the driver’s seat. “I thought you liked my boobs.”

“I’ll still get your boobs,” Brittany mutters, jamming the key into the ignition with a little more force than is absolutely necessary. Santana scrambles for the passenger side, barely clicking the seatbelt into place before the van tears from its parking space and careens recklessly out of the lot.

“You only get my boobs if we both live,” she reminds her girlfriend when Brittany narrowly misses belting a trash can. Sex is fantastic and everything, and she loves that she can make Brittany squirm so heartily, but Quinn’s accident is still fresh enough in her memory to find moments like this less than arousing. She lays a calming hand against Brittany’s knee and squeezes. “Slow down.”

She does, though her teeth grind together and her eyes continue to flick between the road and Santana’s face. Even driving at a relatively normal pace, they reach the Lopez estate in record time, swinging into the driveway and halting a bare inch from the garage door. Santana stretches to admire the damage-that-could-have-been, smirking.

“Really? Getting in my pants drives you nuts enough to crash into my garage?”

“Getting into your pants drives me nuts enough to take out the _school_ ,” Brittany insists, tongue poking between her teeth. She’s grinning like it’s a joke, but her hands are digging deep into her pockets, twisting as she rubs her thighs together. Santana circles around behind her, slapping her ass on the way to the front door, and laughs.

“If any pussy’d be worth that, you know it would be mine.”

Her parents are still out, which makes it perfectly acceptable to grasp Brittany’s shirt and shove her against foyer wall, sending a glossy, framed photo of her at graduation tumbling to the carpet. Brittany’s hands close over her ass, pulling her tight against the front of her jeans.

“Let’s do it in the living room,” she pants, tilting her head back as Santana licks down her jawline. “Let’s do it on the couch, we haven’t done it on the couch in—“

She cuts herself off, clutching at Santana when blunt teeth scrape at the height of her throat. Her fingers toy at the edges of the new shorts, nails biting as Santana sucks, drawing a dark blush into pale skin.

“Get the toy,” Santana husks against her skin, swirling her tongue in tiny patterns that prompt Brittany’s hands to tighten against her ass. Her hips jolt against Santana, her breath puffing out sharply. “Get the toy, and you can do me anywhere you want.”

Brittany pushes her away and is bolting for the basement steps before she can blink, slipping and sliding on the hall carpet like a gangly puppy. Santana leans against the wall and laughs, fingers absently sliding the base of her own shirt up her stomach. Sexy, yes, Brittany has always been that—but also the world’s biggest goofball, and it’s moments like this that have Santana loving her so much, she can’t breathe right.

She settles on the couch to wait, hands stroking casually up and down her bare thighs as she listens to the far-away sounds of Brittany clattering around in her bedroom. It shouldn’t take too long; Brittany is far more adept at slipping into the harness than she is, and so excited at the prospect of taking her here in her parents’ pristine living room that she might well burst before she even gets back—

Right on cue, there comes thundering footsteps on the stairs, and Santana nearly laughs again, thinking on how her graceful dancer of a girlfriend can make such elephantine noises when she’s in a hurry.

“You ready?” she calls teasingly, spreading her legs wide and closing her palms over her own knees. Brittany pauses in the doorway, skirt bunching in a new way as her feet bounce against the carpeted floor.

“Are _you_?” she replies, narrowed eyes sweeping down Santana’s body where she reclines against the couch cushions. “You’re gonna have to lose the pants…”

“So strip me,” Santana bites off, arching her back until her breasts are on full display. The shirt clings to her abs, leaving ample space above her waistline; she drags her nails up her own thighs, hissing in pleasure. Brittany takes a step into the room, predatory.

They hover for a moment: Brittany standing a foot from the couch, Santana’s hands tracing the spaces where Brittany should be. For a moment, they watch each other: Brittany wearing that confident smirk, Santana’s eyes fixed on the foreign bulge at her crotch.

Then Brittany is crossing to her, quick and agile, hitting her knees when she reaches the couch. Her torso presses up between Santana’s legs, calling to mind images of the way her tongue dipped and danced in that dressing room, each heated stroke dragging Santana to the edge; her hands come to rest on Santana’s hips, thumbs drawing blistering circles just above her waistband.

“Strip. Me,” Santana repeats in a low voice, running her tongue across her lips when Brittany’s fingers clutch in response. Brittany bows her face between pert breasts, inhaling, and nudges with her forehead against Santana’s breastbone. Her fingers skid down, tracing seams and pockets and the very edge of material where it meets silky skin, while her mouth moves gradually up across the shirt. Her lips part against the yellow Batman logo, her tongue flickering out to trace its lines and curves where they grasp Santana’s breasts tight as Santana dutifully pushes her chest out.

Her fingers snag in blonde hair when shameless lips skim her left nipple, tongue running flat through two layers of clothing. There shouldn’t be enough contact for this kind of a reaction, but where Brittany’s mouth is concerned, it can’t be helped; Brittany’s mouth is shockingly hot and wet as it closes around the peak, suckling through the shirt. Long fingers brace against her spine, holding her close while she squirms, aching to feel that tongue directly on pebbled skin.

Brittany moans, mouth opening wide to take her in, and Santana arches, toes pushing off from the floor. Her hands scramble at the back of Brittany’s head, her skin desperate for more as Brittany’s mouth slowly soaks through the t-shirt, the bra, marking her without ever touching.

She sees the glimmer of Brittany’s eyelashes, pitch-dark against ivory skin, watches Brittany’s neck tilt so those glorious lips can kiss their way to her other breast—and then those teeth are closing around her nipple again, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt through her system. She lifts her hips from the couch, gasping when Brittany’s tongue rings around the nipple teasingly, flicking at it relentlessly. Harder and faster, boldly swiping from left to right, until her head spins and her voice cracks in a high whimper.

She’s soaked through now, her groin rocking furiously against Brittany’s stomach; she yanks at Brittany’s hair, struggling to pry hot lips away from her shirt front just long enough to make eye contact.

“You’re supposed,” she pants, shuddering when Brittany—staring her dead in the eyes—pokes her tongue out and gives her left nipple another bold flick, “to be _fucking_ me.”

“Told you I would get your boobs,” Brittany replies, grinning cheekily and smacking a sloppy kiss off the curve of her breast. Santana rolls her head back, groaning.

“Shorts off. You in me. Now.”

Brittany’s hands deftly smooth to her shorts, popping the button and inching the zipper down. “Lift,” she commands, and Santana shifts her hips upward, rubbing sinfully against Brittany’s flexed abs again. She whines, squirming until the clingwrap-esque shorts shimmy loose at last.

Brittany slides the long-decimated red panties off and pulls Santana tight to her again, palming the small of her back when Santana ruts violently against her. Her hands scramble for Brittany’s shirt, hauling it up over her head before she can say a word about it, until they’re skin on shirt, cotton bunching wetly over sensitive breasts made even more sensitive by the ragged pull of pink nipples.

She could come here, like this, rocking insistently against Brittany’s tight stomach, feeling the weight of Brittany’s hands cradling her spine, with Brittany’s mouth opening and closing fiercely against her shoulder, her neck, whatever bit of sweaty skin she can reach. She could come just like this, split apart with her legs wound around Brittany’s middle, grasping at her hair and moaning uncontrollably.

But Brittany is reaching down between her own legs, hiking her skirt up around her hips, and Santana remembers why they came back here in the first place. Wantonly grinding herself against Brittany’s body is something she could have done in the car, or anywhere at all. Riding Brittany, though, feeling the slick push and pull of being filled, of Brittany driving in deep and pounding against her very sanity—

She roughly palms Brittany’s cheek, dragging her lips up to match Santana’s own. “Fuck me,” she hisses around Brittany’s tongue as it sweeps through her mouth, around Brittany’s teeth as they clutch her lip with a frantic hunger. “Fuck me, _now_.”

Brittany pushes to her feet, flipping Santana onto her back and settling between her thighs. She reaches back blindly, shoving the hem of her skirt into her waistband, and rocks her hips forward once. The tip of the strap-on drags between Santana’s legs, nudging against her swollen clit, the flush of her lips, teasing at her as Brittany’s left hand grips her hipbone. With her right, she spreads Santana, presses the tips of her fingers to her opening, easing in and out until Santana’s legs jerk wider, her hands knotting around her own hair.

“Please,” she begs, and Brittany smiles, reaching down to grasp the extension of her body and guide it smoothly, slowly, inside. She moves carefully, and Santana exhales in a shaky _yes_ as she sinks in deep, inch by inch, until her hips blanket Santana’s. She thrusts once, and Santana reaches around to grip at her ass, to urge her close with palms spread across soft, round skin.

“Slow down,” Brittany whispers, a husky parody of their conversation in the car, and Santana mewls with frustration, because that is exactly what Brittany is doing: slowing, timing her thrusts exactly, rocking with smooth, gentle force as she slides in and out. _Slow_ , and steady, and no matter how viciously Santana jerks her own hips, or how loudly the slap of her palm resonates, reddening the skin of Brittany’s ass, she doesn’t speed up. Her lips nip at Santana’s earlobe, her tongue skirting in rhythmic strokes down her neck, her breasts rubbing languidly against the front of the stupid Batman shirt—

“Love you like this,” Brittany murmurs against her ear, coiling her tongue gently beneath the lobe. “Squirming under me.”

Santana growls, digging her nails into supple skin, her knee bouncing against the back of the couch as she rocks with Brittany’s careful motions. She can feel herself clenching with every thrust, her muscles dragging at the strap-on as it presses in, struggling to hang on when it slides wetly back out again. Brittany keeps doing this agonizing _thing_ where she presses in deeply enough to reach the very darkest, hottest bit of her—and then pulls out again, completely, so that only the tip is angled against her entrance for the next stroke. Brittany, who _knows_ how impatient she is at a time like this, who is _clearly_ paying her back for that decision in the car—the _make your choice_ moment—who licks a hot stripe down her throat and buries her face against her shoulder, laughing soundlessly.

Laughing, and moaning, because even though she is purposely taking her time, obviously struggling to make it last, she wants this just as badly as Santana does—and maybe more. She remembers vividly the look in Brittany’s eyes in that dressing room, the way her cheeks went bright pink and her lips parted at the mention of Santana settled atop her, hips angling back and forth, head thrown back in ecstasy—

“Roll over,” she pants, even as her hands squeeze at Brittany’s ass, drawing her in on the next thrust and holding her there. Brittany’s eyes roll in her head, her breath puffing out in a sharp whine. “Roll over, I want—I need—“

She doesn’t finish; Brittany’s thrusts are speeding up, and Santana’s body is responding in kind, gripping the shaft as it pounds recklessly deep, the muscle clenching and shuddering. Through sheer force of will, she holds off the impending orgasm, pushing Brittany to shift above her, clumsily shuffling until the lithe, strong body is displayed beneath her, her knees hooked on either side of angular, elegant hips.

Brittany watches her with hooded eyes, lip between her teeth as Santana’s hand covers her own upon the shaft, easing it between her legs, brushing its tip accidentally against her clit as she goes. Her eyelids flicker, a bell exploding in her head as she drags the head of the strap-on into place and lowers—sinking hard and fast as it pushes her open, already slick with her, _designed_ to glide in and fill her to the brim. It’s _part_ of Brittany in this moment, the part that penetrates where even a magnificent tongue can’t reach, the part that feels her buck and squeeze and tighten around it. She runs her fingers through rumpled dark hair, hips rising and falling, leaning back into the hand Brittany has braced against the base of her spine for balance, moaning hoarsely.

 _Slow_ isn’t cutting it now; she eases herself up and drops violently down again until it almost hurts, giving power to the tight, harsh feeling in the very center of her. Her thighs tremble, her stomach going rigid, and Brittany’s eyes bore into her all the while, blue and fiery and wanting. Brittany’s hips arch up to press into her, matching her thrust for thrust, Brittany’s palms firm on her skin, and Santana finds herself rapidly losing control. She can see herself if she leans back just enough, can watch the place where she and Brittany meet, where Brittany angles up into her, where her body clenches and releases on cue. She’s dripping onto Brittany’s skin, glistening, and the sight of it—the sight of _them_ together—tears loose a rough, feral sound from her throat.

She loses itafter that, utterly and completely, one hand slamming down on the back of the couch as the other drags the t-shirt up over her breasts, mercilessly pinching her own nipple until it aches. Brittany’s hands curl around her hips, guiding her into the final stretch as the orgasm explodes behind her eyes; she bucks and jerks, clumsy and groaning, and Brittany helps her ride it out to the very last. Brittany’s skin, soaked through with her own desire, with Santana’s, with their mingled sweat, is brilliant and smooth when Santana’s knees bump against her. Brittany’s eyes are lidded, her mouth curled around a low sound of pleasure. Brittany looks as though her wildest dreams have all come true at once, and Santana—hazily, coming down from her high—feels a roiling burst of pride for it.

Brittany helps her dismount, shifting to deposit her breathlessly on the couch, and Santana curls against her instantly. Her hand slides stutteringly to close around Brittany’s breast, thumbing at her nipple until she breathes out a hopeful sigh.

Her legs are still shaking, but when Brittany’s mouth finds hers, she kisses back warmly, tongue spiraling in a winding dragon’s dance around Brittany’s. She’s still pulsing, but when Brittany’s hands come to rest on her waist, pulling her close, she rubs herself pleasantly against the shaft all the same—because no sex is enough sex, not where Brittany’s concerned, and _Brittany_ hasn’t gotten off yet, she hasn’t gotten the chance to see _Brittany_ come—

“Kitchen,” she drawls clumsily against Brittany’s lips, shivering when a hand skates up the back of her shirt, nails scratching at the base of her neck. “Lose that thing. I want to fuck you against the counter.”

“Think you can stand?” Brittany asks, half-flirtatious, half-honestly concerned. Santana kisses back boldly in response, kisses and drags at her until they’re off the couch and stumbling earnestly toward the kitchen.

It takes a moment for Brittany to fumble with the straps on the harness, and Santana takes the opportunity to spin her by the hips, sending her back into the counter beside the sink with a crash. Long fingers struggle to undo buckles as Santana’s knees drop against the clean tile floor—and then Brittany’s eyes are going wide, because Santana is grasping the hilt of the strap-on and drawing it between her lips, licking and sucking at the head with abandon.

“I can’t—,” Brittany stammers, one hand flailing behind herself to clutch at the countertop. “I can’t fu— _fuck_ —“

The insert rubs against her clit when Santana does this, she knows; even so, as her head bobs and dips, her eyes glued to Brittany’s, she thinks it’s sort of a shame that Brittany can’t _completely_ feel what she’s doing to their little addition. It’s a shame that she can’t revel in the way Santana’s tongue curls, and strokes, the heat of her mouth, the vibrations of her shaky little moans—

A shame, but her legs are shuddering, and her hand is palming the back of Santana’s head, so Santana figures it’s better than nothing. She leans back, releasing the shaft from her lips and stretching up to unbuckle the last remaining bit of harness.

“Too slow,” she murmurs coyly, drawing the wrinkled skirt down Brittany's legs and tossing it aside. Brittany throws her head back, groaning.

“How do you _do_ that?”

“Give yourself some credit,” she teases, “you used to give a pretty impressive BJ yourself, back in the day—“

“Bounce back so fast,” Brittany interrupts, growling at the back of her throat the way she always does when Santana reminds her there was ever anyone before _them_. “Maybe I need to fuck you harder next time.”

“Maybe you should shut up and spread your legs,” Santana hisses back. She yanks the harness to the floor and runs her hand up the inside of Brittany’s thigh on her way back up, squeezing lightly at the muscle, tracing its indentation with one fingernail. “Lookin’ toned, baby.”

Brittany makes another sharp sound even as Santana drags up her body, fingers etching tiny symbols against soaked, soft lips. “Toned and _mine_ ,” she adds, tonguing at Brittany’s collarbone and slamming two fingers in, crooking until Brittany’s body winds tight into her hand. “Mine, and fuckable, and you’re gonna come _hard_ today, Britt—“

Brittany cries out, clit grinding into the palm of Santana’s hand. Tight around Santana’s fingers, throbbing as Santana drives in three at a time, all slick and desperate and hungry, she bucks—her back beating against the counter’s edge, her fist pressed between her lips, her thigh clenching as Santana straddles it at just the right angle to send painfully-flushed skin into overdrive again.

Sticky and hot, her muscles clamp firm around Santana’s fingers as they plunge in and out, teasing at Brittany’s entrance on every pass. She strokes and angles, applying pressure way down deep to that screaming bundle of nerves, the one that makes Brittany’s jaw come loose, her hands windmilling in the air for purchase as her body pushes off from the counter. She thrusts into that place again and again, pushing up with her own hips, leaving Brittany’s skin stained with her own pleasure as she bites her lip and huffs with exertion.

Brittany keens and whimpers, one hand finding Santana’s bicep and biting in, nails-first, and Santana knows she’s coming—knows, but doesn’t slow her pace. She drives in harder than ever, at a velocity high enough to string every nerve in Brittany’s body tight before snapping, all at once, her pelvis angling down on Santana’s hand with bone-rattling force.

“ _Oh God, I’m—I’m com—I’m—_ “

She braces her body against Brittany’s, pinning her to the counter and draping open, sweeping kisses along her shoulder, the shudder of her bicep, the top of her breast. She holds them both there, slowing her own grinding pattern to a lull, and smiles.

“That’s two. You up for marking another of my parents’ favorite rooms, or have I worn my poor girl all out for the day?”

Brittany’s head lifts, her chest rising and falling as she struggles for breath. “I—want—give me—a minute—“

“I mean,” Santana goes on thoughtfully, bending her knees to take Brittany’s nipple reverently into her mouth for a second. “I _did_ win the bet earlier. Which means I _do_ kind of get to make the executive decision here.”

Brittany’s eyes narrow, her hand smoothing up Santana’s back over that shirt to cradle the base of her skull.

“And,” Santana says cheerfully, “if I say I want you on all fours on my parents’ bed so I can fuck you from behind—well, I’m just saying—you kind of have to do whatever I say.”

“You’re dirty,” Brittany breathes, cheeks flushed. She wraps an arm around Santana’s waist, the hand propped against the back of her head tilting her back gently.

“Filthy,” Santana husks, lips teasing briefly against Brittany’s, goading her into giving chase. “And I think my filthy self wants to hear you scream for me—“

Brittany kisses her hard enough to send an ache zipping through her teeth, naked body slick against Santana’s. “Race you,” she whispers throatily. Santana’s eyes gleam.

“First one there gets to choose the starting position.”

Brittany takes off like that gangly puppy again, her hand locked tight in Santana’s, their laughter chasing up and down the halls of the empty house.  



End file.
